


Aim for the Chest

by extraonions



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Community: apocalyptothon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-22
Updated: 2010-05-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraonions/pseuds/extraonions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Brigadier learns the burden that comes from knowing the future, yet not acting upon it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim for the Chest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lisaofdoom](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lisaofdoom).



> Please see this story [at my livejournal](http://extraonions.livejournal.com/14500.html) for notes and credits.

## Aim for the Chest

  


> _What was that?___
> 
> That, Brigadier, was the beginning of the end of the world.
> 
> _Same as ever, eh, Doctor?_
> 
> –Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, to the Doctor [Battlefield]

The trouble with facing the Apocalypse, to one Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart’s mind, was that there were so damned many of them.  By his count, the world had (almost) ended at least a dozen times, and that was only under his watch.  

Somehow the world always managed to pull through, usually with the Doctor’s help, though one might notice that the world never seemed to be ending if the Doctor wasn’t present.  

The Doctor was a trouble-magnet to be sure, as Alistair said on more than one occasion, but a damned fine man—it hardly seemed sporting to lump him in as an alien what with types like the Zygons and Yetis or those wretched Silurians.  Occasionally irritating, deliberately mysterious, always brilliant, and Alistair wouldn’t lay good odds on him being quite entirely sane, but a splendid chap none the less.   All of them.

Alistair would quite cheerfully follow the Doctor through the gates of hell—or as it turned out, through that interstitial vortex.  He was a military man, a man who knew how to take orders as well as give them.  Alistair was also was a man who knew his limitations.  He was an old soldier—good for one final advance and was rather enjoying himself doing it.  He was expendable.  The Doctor was not.  That was why he was the one facing down Morgaine’s Destroyer with only a service pistol full of silver bullets.

“Ah… little man.  What do you want of me?”  The creature’s mouth slavered, tossing its grotesque blue skull with wickedly curled horns back as if he were scenting his prey.  

“Get off my world!”

Unimpressed, the Destroyer regarded him as one might an insect—annoying, possibly diverting to watch, but ultimately harmless.

“Pitiful. Can this world do no better than you as their Champion?" The Destroyer sneered, the broken chains rattling against each other as he laughed.

The gun never wavered in Alistair’s grip.  "Probably. I just do the best I can."  The blue lips curl back, and Alistair braced himself for another painful shock of energy like the one that previously sent him careening through the wall.

Silver bullets, eh?  He checked his aim, heart pounding.  He really was getting too old for this sort of excitement.  He wondered how Doris would get on.

Head or chest?  Alistair’s found that a bullet between the eyes will slow down most things, alien creature or not.  

Then, a voice from the past, and a strange conversation at the edge of time that had haunted Alistair echoed in his mind.  Northern accent.  A hint of bitterness beneath the self-mocking tone.

_Aim for the chest._

The bullets made a neat triangle in the center of The Destroyer’s chest.  The creature screamed out its death throes, and a blinding green explosion rocked the earth under Alistair’s feet.  As he sank into unconsciousness, Alistair is drawn back through the years to the memory of that other Doctor.

_Aim for the chest.  Three rounds, rapid._

* * *

It was not the first time the Brigadier’s been in the TARDIS, though it looked quite different than the version currently sitting in the lab at HQ.  Darker; more organic.  

It had not taken long for Alistair to be assured that the man beside him was, in fact, the Doctor.  Some future version of him, he supposed.  

Alistair was beginning to develop a sense of such things even though the whole concept of regeneration played hell on his nerves, but the presence of a second, virtually identical TARDIS, along with the stranger’s proffered U.N.I.T. security codes and the wrinkled pass in Alistair’s own hand set him in an open frame of mind.

It was unsettling to say the least, to go from _his_ Doctor’s peculiar brand of dignified flamboyance to this dangerous, unpredictable stranger.  Alistair recognized this air of loss on men before, military men, soldiers pushed too far in the line of duty.  He remembered it on the faces of women and children during the unrest in Sierra Leone when he served in the Scots Guard.  This Doctor tried to cover it with wide grins and constant motion, but Alistair saw the shadows lurking in the stillness of his face.

This TARDIS also actually worked, which is more than Alistair can say about _his_ Doctor’s TARDIS.  At least, he supposed it must, as he was currently looking out into the vastness of space, trying not to flinch as huge chunks of asteroid or other debris seemed to hurdle past and through them.

“What the devil is this, Doctor?” Alistair demanded; his eyes locked on the three-dimensional image.  The control room was awash in a thousand shades of orange, settling over their bodies and along the walls like flickering flames.

The Doctor was staring at the fireball burning at the center of the debris field, idly fiddling with switches and diagnostics on the panel he was standing in front of.  “What, this?  Just an echo, Brigadier.  Like a footprint at the shore, washed away.  There was a planet here once.  People.  Gone now; in a terrible war.”  

“Earth?” he asked, feeling vaguely alarmed.  

The Doctor snorted derisively.  “No.  No, your precious little planet is quite safe.  Safe as houses!”  He cocked his head at Alistair, considered him.  “We’ve kept it safe, you and I.”  There was real pain in his voice despite the light tone, and Alistair noticed the frown lines at the corners of his mouth.  

“Then this…?” It took time, years in fact, but Alistair learned enough about the Doctor—no matter which Doctor—to know that he did nothing without a purpose.  It might drive a man to drink trying to discern said purpose, but there would always be one.

“My planet.  Gallifrey.  Wanted you to see it.” The Doctor’s sentences are clipped, brusque.  He shifted restlessly from foot to foot.  “Quite a sight, eh?  _Fantastic!_  I could sell tickets.  Work for pin money.”

“But there’s nothing left of it… just bits of rocks and dust,” Alistair protested, trying to wrap his mind around the enormity of the destruction.

“Yes.”  The Doctor’s glaze was far away, lost in thought.  “An advanced civilization literally billions of years old… all gone in an instant.    Nothing to show for it except these bits of rock… and me.”  He laughed; a terrible, unbalanced sound.  

“I’m sorry.”

The Doctor shook his head angrily.  “Nothing to be sorry for.  It was a war.  We fought.”  He glanced sidelong at Alistair.  “When you bombed the Silurian base, I called it genocide.  I was angry.  Understand it now.  Easier when it’s your own planet at risk.”

Alistair didn’t regret bombing that base—he’d had his orders, and the Silurians were an undeniable threat.  But he regretted the thin end of the wedge that loss of trust between the Doctor and himself created.  

The Doctor saved humanity and Earth from certain destruction more times than Alistair can contemplate.  He wanted a way to honour the debt.  “When you take me back to HQ,” Alistair began, “With the right information, you—your past self, rather—could prevent this.  It was a war?  Perhaps I could—“

“No.”  The Doctor’s voice is flat.  

“Confound it, Doctor, why not?  You’re a Time Lord, or so you keep telling me.”

“Don’t argue the toss,” the Doctor snapped.  “Don’t interfere.  Future isn't meant to be known.  Hard on a man, to know his fate.  His failure.”

Alistair sighed.  “Very well, Doctor.”  Apparently it was all well and good for the Doctor to interfere in the fate of the Earth… but his own?  Sacrosanct, it seemed.  There’s an uncomfortable silence.

“Brigadier.” The Doctor’s eyes are hooded, unreadable.  The air feels colder.

It is instances like these when Alistair sensed a little of the enormity of the man before him—the weight of history, of centuries and worlds and all of space and time echoing out from beneath his skin; barely reigned in chaos.  He felt it before on occasion, but never so strongly as with _this_ Doctor, angry and lost as he seemed.  

He waited, patient gaze resting on the Doctor, but the other man wasn’t speaking.  The Doctor just stared out at the remains of his world pensively.  Eventually, Alistair prompted him.  “Doctor?”

The Doctor turned a little towards him, shoulders hunched in and hands shoved down low into the pockets of his battered leather jacket.  “Aim for the chest.”  

“What?”

He grinned suddenly, fiercely, and said, “You understand?  Just aim for the chest, three rounds rapid, and Bob’s your uncle, end of story!”

Alistair stared at the Doctor, nonplussed.  

“_Fantastic!_” the Doctor exclaimed, and slapped the palm of his hand against the controls.  The TARDIS dematerialized just as a holographic piece of shrapnel speared the air where Alistair stood.

* * *

“You stupid, stubborn, pigheaded numbskull! You were supposed to die in _bed_!”  The voice is anguished.

Alistair swatted feebly at the hands currently shaking his aching body.  He mumbled something to the Doctor about knowing when to run.  His head was pounding and he felt slightly dizzy, but the crisis was averted, at least for now.

On their way to return Excalibur, Alistair quipped, “In bed, eh, Doctor?  Whatever happened to ‘no man should know his future’?”

The Doctor looked at Alistair, tapping the handle of his umbrella against his chin thoughtfully.  He didn’t answer.

* * *

It wasn’t until he stood before the slumped form of King Arthur—or rather, the great king’s dusty remains—and Ace pulled the note out from the helm that Alistair was tempted.

When the Doctor still worked closely for U.N.I.T. all those years ago, Alistair allowed many opportunities to warn the Doctor of the terrible future that awaited his home planet to slip away.  Though it troubled him, Alistair never said a word in accordance to the future Doctor’s wishes.  

Yet, the Doctor left himself a note about the death of Arthur, and Morgaine’s plans for the nuclear weapon.  A warning.  Did it constitute a precedent?  Permission, perhaps?  Could that future Doctor not just as easily left a warning about the war?

The Doctor saved the world from destruction.  Earth, but not Gallifrey.  With his words.  His wisdom.  And perhaps also with his two hearts, which were lodged firmly in the right place.

No, Alistair would not tell him.  Honour, and friendship, demanded better from him.  But it was difficult, more difficult by far than facing down The Destroyer.  Alistair was a man of decisive speech and action, but this time, he had to save a world—Earth—through his silence.

Earth needed the Doctor to protect it.  Alistair knew the Doctor would someday need the Earth as well, more than ever, when his own world was burned to nothing.  

In the meantime, Alistair would keep both the planet and the secret safe for him.   

* * *

_Aim for the chest.  Three rounds, rapid._

Alistair smiled.

* * *

  



End file.
